


Promiscuous

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Distraction to save your partner's life, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5177915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just play along, Peril. I'm trying to save your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promiscuous

“Cowboy?”

Cold, icy anger settles in Illya's gut at the sight before him. He finds Napoleon on the floor, leaning heavily against the rusted metal wall of the dimly lit room, a single low voltage bulb hanging from its ceiling being it’s only source of light. At once Illya drops to his knees before Napoleon and curses aloud when he sees his partner’s actual condition. Blood is trickling down his cheek from a cut on his right temple and his shirt is torn and bloodied on the left shoulder. Illya quickly checks the cause, a nasty stab wound which cuts clean through his skin but the depth not deep enough to cause any serious damage. Despite Napoleon's muffled protests, Illya lifts his tattered shirt to check for further wounds and thankfully finds none except for some deep bruises on his ribs. Composing himself, tries his best not to let his temper flare, he places a hand on Napoleon’s good shoulder, lifts his chin up with his other so he could look at him properly in the eye.

“Solo, hey? You okay?”

Napoleon slowly blinks his eyes at the Russian, wills away the painful throb in his head. He groans and shifts a little, straightening his body. He shakes his head at Illya, croaks, “Not okay. Hurts.”

“Okay, that is dumb question. Sorry,” Illya retracts his words, apologises.

“No need to be sorry,” Napoleon mutters, manages to grin despite being in obvious pain. “For a minute I actually thought you're not coming back, because we’ve got the information we needed. Mission is completed.” He then groans a little in discomfort, pain, probably a combination of both.

“Nyet. It’s the trackers. We couldn’t get a signal at first. Only managed to find you after Gaby had fixed it,” Illya explains. He tries to maintain a semblance of calm, although a little annoyed Napoleon had entertained the possibility that he would actually leave him behind. How Napoleon could even think that is for them to argue at a different time, when Illya’s mind is not all frantic at trying to get his partner to safety. 

“Can you stand? Walk?” he asks, worries when he sees Napoleon grimacing. Illya hates it when Napoleon gets injured, feels he has failed him somehow. After seconds of deliberation, Illya decides to chance moving him. He places a hand underneath Napoleon’s good arm, to try to bring him to his feet when Napoleon stops him by tugging at his shoulder, making Illya frown. 

“What's wrong? We need to go, Cowboy. Gaby’s waiting for us outside.”

“Illya,” Napoleon murmurs lowly, pulls Illya down towards him by his shirt sleeve, his fingers trembling. “Wait.”

“What is it? What do you want?” Illya asks again. Something is obviously wrong. Napoleon’s sudden strange antics is perturbing him. “Solo?”

Unknown to Illya, Napoleon’s assailant is still in that room, slowly encroaching nearer and Napoleon’s heart thumps wildly in his chest. He sees his silhouette hovering the border where darkness meets light in the room and shudders. Illya is in danger. 

“I will kill your partner if he comes through that door for you, Solo. Kill him slowly. And I'll let you watch.”

Napoleon recalls his threat, delivered moments before he had been knocked out cold. He had forgotten his presence until he’d caught sight of him moving in the shadows seconds before Illya had tried to help him up. Napoleon knows he’ll make good of his earlier threat but he’s not going to let him kill Illya, not today, not anytime soon. Under normal circumstances, Illya could beat him senseless easily but the Russian has his back against him, the assailant has a gun in his hand and Illya's reflexes, no matter how impressive, might not be able to dodge those bullets in time. Napoleon doesn't want to risk it. Knowing he needs to throw the enemy off his game, and using what he’s learned about him to his advantage, there is only one option he could think off at that moment and hopes, prays to God, his idea would work. And he hopes Illya’s uncanny ability to read his mind will pay off this time.

“Peril, do you trust me?”

Illya hesitates for a second, blinks at Napoleon’s question. His blue eyes are trying to convey some hidden message he’s not able to articulate in words. No matter what their differences are sometimes, through all the times he’s spent with Napoleon, Illya truly believes he trusts him enough, so he slowly nods. He leans in when Napoleon’s hand that is curled around his neck pulls him closer. 

“Play along, Peril.”

Before Illya could process his words, Napoleon kisses him. The act takes Illya by surprise. He grunts, groans a little at the sudden contact of their lips but when Napoleon’s lips part slightly, lets the tip of his tongue trace Illya’s hard yielding lips with a soft moan to accompany his act, Illya relents. Napoleon’s words resound in his head.

_Play along._

So Illya does and reciprocates, opens his mouth and lets Napoleon in. The American’s hand on his neck moves up to Illya’s hair, gripping it tight, making him hiss a little. Napoleon tilts his head and eyes the enemy, a surprised lusty look displayed on his face at the act in front of him. Sensing he’s fallen for his trap, Napoleon antes up his act, lets out a sinful moan as he pulls Illya’s head back to break the kiss. Illya’s eyes are a little wide and wild, both from shock and something incomprehensible he could not describe.

“Why?” he asks but Napoleon doesn’t say a word, only pulls him closer once again, his hand on his shirt collar now. He tilts Illya’s head, kisses his neck, licks a path along his jawline right till underneath his earlobe. Illya cannot believe the moan that escapes his throat due to that little act, braces one hand against the wall behind Napoleon to steady himself. His breath are coming in short gasps now, his knees hard on the floor threatening to give way. His mind is racing because he’s not entirely certain why he’s in that predicament. Illya’s still in a daze when Napoleon’s other nimble hand goes in between their bodies, takes Illya’s gun from the slack grip of his fingers. 

“Don’t turn around, Illya,” he whispers low in Illya’s ear, and then he smiles at his distracted assailant and with a movement quick enough for anyone to notice, too quick for his enemy to react, the gun goes off behind Illya, followed by the sound of a dull thump on the floor. Illya pulls back after a dazed second or two, turns and sees the body of a man slumped on the floor face down not a feet or two behind him. The bullet from his gun had hit him right between his eyes. 

“That’s why,” Napoleon murmurs slowly, answering Illya’s earlier question.

"You could have just told me," Illya mutters, his voice low and a little throaty for his own liking. He sits back on his heels, tries to comprehend the little charade they had so dangerously played. Truth be told, the entire act between them probably had lasted merely minutes but it has left Illya a little shaken.

"Not enough time to warn you, without raising his suspicion. I can't risk it," Napoleon answers, his eyes bright on Illya. He leans his head back against the wall with a soft thud and then gives his partner an almost apologetic smile. “Sorry about that kiss, Peril. Won’t happen again.”

Illya only manages a low scoff in response after letting everything that had happened sink in. After quickly alerting Gaby to bring in assistance, he then gathers himself and slowly pulls Napoleon up to his feet, steadies him, _steadies his own heart_ , unsure who it is between them that requires help the most at the moment.


End file.
